From One Professional to Another
by Uovoc
Summary: Death came for Pitch. That doesn't mean he got him, though.


The Nightmares could only keep him down for so long, he knew. They were only fears, albeit his own for once. And no one knew how fear worked better than Pitch. Once he gave in to despair, they would dissipate, having sucked their host dry.

The process was taking far longer than normal, however. Ironically, the personification of fear wasn't equipped to handle being afraid. It was like having multiple personalities who were all sadists. On one hand, the nightmares were extensions of Pitch. As they fed, he received a stream of nourishment. On the other hand, they were feeding on _him_. It was a vicious cycle.

Meanwhile, they had done plently of physical damage as well. Forget trusty Merrylegs and Snowfire, horses were downright terrifying with their sharp hooves and strong teeth. _And_ he had made a clever pun. The Nightmares had been a brilliant idea, if he did say so himself. But next time, he'd give them some reins. Because there would be a next time.

But not now. Right now, he was completely and thoroughly beaten. he was dust. He was nothing. Rock bottom. Utter failure. He willed himself to believe it as deeply as possible, shutting out the parts of his brain that kept trying to spark fresh fears.

You didn't fear anything when you had nothing more to lose.

_The only thing we have to fear is fear itself._ The phrase rose to his mind unbidden, making him laugh despite the broken ribs. That sentiment, coming from a man who'd done his best to tamp down Pitch, was ridiculously appropriate for his current situation. he chuckled in appreciation. The nightmares drew back and stamped their feet, uncertain. He laughed incredulously at that, too, which further unsettled them.

"Are you afraid?" he called hoarsely, breaking into guffaws at the thought. This whole predicament was just absurd, really. Pitch Black, the Nightmare King, vanquished by fear. How deliciously poetic. He dissolved into giggles. By the time his wheezes had faded from the lair, the last of the horses had bolted.

Well, that took care of that. Unfortunately, they had been his only source of fuel. Without that trickle of vitality returning to him, hew as an empty pair of jaws. Ah, another wonderfully symmetric turn of events. That had been his earliest form, the threat of sharp teeth and nothing more.

He didn't have the energy to muster a laugh, which was a good thing for him. Fear was like a forest fire, it had burnt itself out. But laughter was like giving a wildfire an ice bath. To destroy the monsters, he had had to destroy himself.

The horror, the horror. He suppressed a snort.

IF YOU'RE DONE, came a polite voice behind him. Pitch rolled over, expecting to see a Guardian, there to gloat over his demise. For a second he thought nobody was there. Then a patch of deeper black stirred among the shadows, and hooded figure moved forward. Pitch showed not a flicker of surprise. Whoever the newcomer was, there was nothing more he could do to Pitch.

"I must say, I admire your style," Pitch croaked. He'd always gone for the classis velvety black, but the stranger's cloak was oil-slick iridescent. Pitch was sure that there were more than seven colors in there.

FROM ONE PROFESSIONAL TO ANOTHER, came the courteous reply. AHEM. I DO HAVE A JOB, YOU KNOW. This time there was a touch of impatience in the voice that sounded like mountains collapsing.

"Oh? And what's that?"

Death lifted his scythe. He grinned, but he didn't have much choice about that.

"You have got to be joking," groaned Pitch. The only way this could get any worse was if the skeleton got into an arrow-shooting stance next. "Get it over with, then."

GENERALLY, THE DECEASED MUST FIRST DIE.

"So kill me." This came out in a flat whisper.

NO. I DO NOT KILL. I ONLY REAP.

Pitch groaned again. "Then go away."

YOU ARE DYING.

"No one dies of fright. Go on. Scram."

YOU ARE DYING. It was stated like a fact.

"Yes. But I'll never be dead. There is always fear."

Death reflected upon Pitch's words. THIS IS...UNPRECEDENTED.

Pitch sighed and rolled back over. He wished the skeleton would let him rest in peace; he'd had enough conflicting existential logic for a century.

Death seemed to reach a conclusion. VERY WELL. THERE IS NOW A PRECEDENT. He melted back into the darkness.

As he wrapped the shadows around himself, Pitch made a mental note to add "skeletal steed" to his list of upgrades.

* * *

_Probably the only ROTG/Discworld fanfic out there. I couldn't help but notice how Pitch's design was based heavily on the traditional Death, who of course is the basis of the Disc Death. Not that I'm complaining, the scythe was a perfect weapon for him._

_How was it? Tell me in a review._


End file.
